


own it

by king_wizard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Dean, Dom/sub Undertones, Dysfunctional Family, Fingering, Handcuffs, Jealous John, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Manipulative Sam, Possessive John, Possessive Sam, Season 1, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_wizard/pseuds/king_wizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But he's never going to be able to burn the image of Sam cradling one hand around the perfect curve of Dean's face, dropping the other to the cut of Dean's hip (made for fingers and tongues to trail down, to taste), walking Dean backward until Dean is flush against the wall and Sam is flush against him. This is something that can't be denied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	own it

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this John catches Wincest on Valentine's Day prompt](http://letskinkjensen.livejournal.com/1443.html?thread=20387#t20387) at letskinkjensen meme. This contains Sam/Dean. John and Dean have no interaction, but John does witness Wincest and harbor feelings for Dean. There is no John/Sam. Set in s1 after Faith.
> 
> This is my nod to the John finds out trope. It doesn't really bring anything new to the trope and is mostly an excuse to write John and Sam fighting over Dean. I do include my headcanon, which is also basically canon canon, that John was never romantically in love with Mary and his obsession is a residual affect of Cupid.

The coordinates listing Dean's location - the location of his phone, anyway - lead John to a restaurant he would never have imagined his eldest entering. Dean's broad shoulders are built for leather jackets, roughly woven shirts, not dark suits that are required for places with valet parking and lake spanning fountains.

It's clearly for a case. There's no other time Dean would let Sammy drag him to a place that doesn't serve french fries.   
  
John flicks the overhead light of his truck on and looks over his notes, tracing check marks signifying the Yellow Eyed demon's latest strikes. He searches for a pattern, for clues that could lead him to the next town, the next victim, before the bastard can billow his inky smoke and destroy another life, another family. Every few minutes, he glances at his watch.   
  
Nearly an hour passes before he sees his boys leaving. Dean's feet stumble over one another, and Sam offers him an arm that's barely steadier. They lean against each other as they walk. As far away as John is, he can see the dimples digging deep in Sammy's cheeks, can see the almost unbearably beautiful light that is Dean's joy.   
  
John hadn't planned to check on his sons tonight. He'd seen them a few weeks ago, passing by unnoticed as they solved another case. There were no signs of hurt that they couldn't heal together, so he'd driven away, reassured that they were safe. Even his worries for Sammy, the concerns and fears and black feelings that build higher and higher with each new discovery he makes of Yellow Eye's machinations, had been soothed. Dean is a good, sturdy heart, and if anyone can keep darkness at bay, it's him.  
  
But when he'd checked his laptop an hour ago, he found the signal of Dean's phone miles from where it had been yesterday, found it close enough to his own location that it would've buzzed gnat like in his brain if he hadn't at least driven by the boys' motel.  
  
He watches as they wait for the Impala to be driven around. Part of him can't believe Dean allowed one of the skinny slips of valets to drive his Baby; part of him flinches that Dean would believe John would allow it.   
  
Dean swaggers to the driver's side and Sammy slides into the passenger seat. John assumes they're going back to the motel, but he isn't sure, and decides to follow the slick slide of the Impala through the night.   
  
-  
  
The bar they stop it is more the Winchester style. Lights blink blurry and there are more scratches in the paint than there are perfect patches. If the ritzy restaurant was for a case, then this dive is for blowing off steam.   
  
John considers following them inside. They didn't seem to notice him trailing them to the place, sloppy and unaware in ways he taught them to never be. It's clearly time for a lesson to reinforce the importance of paying attention to their surroundings.   
  
He stays in his truck instead. He'll surprise them at the motel. Slip into their room, maybe, show them how dangerous their lack awareness can be. Quick and forceful examples are the only way his boys will learn, get in their thick heads that they can't afford any distractions in this fight.   
  
-  
  
Their next stop is a CVS Pharmacy. Sam hops out the Impala while Dean remains inside, probably jamming out to his cassette tapes, singing with his low but lovely voice and rocking his head, the way he does when he thinks no one is watching him.   
  
John trails behind Sam. He doesn't worry that Sam will notice his own father stalking him in the brightly lit pharmacy. Boy has been out of the game for four years, long enough to lose his instincts and forget the lessons John taught him for survival.   
  
He stays a few aisles away, watching as his son enters and disappears into the 'Hygiene' section, then watching as Sam exits and heads to the check out counter. With a shake of his head, he consoles himself that at least Sam is being careful with something.     
  
As Sam checks out, he swipes a case of low point beer from the refrigerated section. He hangs back until Sam leaves.   
  
When he makes his way to the counter, the girl behind it is blushing.   
  
He pays for the six pack with a wad of cash he picked up from a vampire - why the thing had cash on it, he doesn't know, or care.   
  
As he leaves, the checkout girl wishes him a "happy Valentine's Day, sir!" He laughs a little, soft and to himself. He didn't even realize it was a holiday.  
  
-  
  
John pulls his truck into the motel after the Impala. He thought they might have seen him a few times; he wasn't following far behind, and at one point he ended up directly behind them at a stop light. Dean kept his eyes at the road and his brother, though, and Sammy did the same.  
  
They roll into a parking place a few spaces away from their room. John parks his own truck several empty rows behind.   
  
Dean stumbles from the Impala, nearly falling over his own lack of balance. Before Dean can fall on his face, Sam is rushing to his side, catching him in a horizon stretched wingspan.  
  
Heavily leaning against Sam's side, Dean laughs, brash and bawdy. Annoyed and frustrated as John is, he can't stop the shake of his head or the fondness that wells in his chest. If it weren't for that Yellow Eyed bastard, if it weren't for evil things, Dean would've had the freedom to be so carelessly happy every day of his life.   
  
His sons walk to their motel, bumping shoulders and legs. When they're at the door, Dean digs into his pockets, presumably looking for the key. Sam practically hangs from his brother, one arm hooked around the breadth of Dean's shoulders, the other disappearing in front of Dean.   
  
From his position, John can't see what Sam is doing with the other hand, but he can see Dean stutter, twist and laugh and shake. Almost as if Sam is tickling him.   
  
Finally Sam moves, but it's only to plaster himself on his brother's back. He slides his palms down Dean's back in a sweep that looks far too intimate to be teasing, then reaches into Dean's pocket. John can hear Dean's pitched noise of protest from the truck. He can hear Sam's full laugh, too, and he can see the glint of the motel key when Sam fishes it from his brother's jeans.   
  
Dean fixes Sam with a narrowed glare that melts almost instantly into an endeared smile. The lamplight flickers bright enough for John to catch the color flushed high on Dean's cheeks.   
  
They stumble into the motel room, laughing like idiots without a thought of the dangers that breathe so closely to their necks.   
  
John decides he'll wait until they're asleep, then slip in and put the fear of monsters and demons and Hell into them. He'll remind them that even in beds and under the covers, where innocent people think they're safe, there can be evil lurking.   
  
He recalls the countless nights he's spent with his boys. Sammy always takes a shower after business, 20 minutes at least, and takes less than that to fall asleep. Dean only takes a shower if he's not too tired; judging by the way he swayed on his feet, John reckons he's already face first on the bed. Probably only took the time to strip out of his jacket and over shirt and jeans, crawl under scratchy sheets in a thin tee and boxer briefs, navy or gray or black, the kind that hug him too close.   
  
John shifts in his seat, a little warm in the February chill (must be his new jacket, bulkier than the one he gave to Dean, the one that makes him look older and broader but somehow so much smaller, more tender, like someone who needs to be cradled and cared for). He glances at his watch, gives himself 40 minutes.   
  
When he looks up at the boys' room, he sees the curtains are being pulled wide open. He clenches his jaw; Sam and Dean both know better than to leave themselves so vulnerable. The curtains are yanked completely apart, revealing Sammy standing shirtless in the room.   
  
John rolls his eyes. Four years at school have left his youngest soft. Too soft, dangerously so, especially when Yellow Eyes has been paying some strange attention to him for the past years.   
  
Then Sam narrows his tilted eyes, looking straight ahead as if he's staring through John's windshield. John wonders if Sam isn't staring at him, hasn't been aware that he's been following them since the restaurant. Maybe both of his boys have, turned the tables on the lesson he was going to teach him. He'd almost be proud if he wasn't so annoyed.   
  
But almost immediately, Sam turns his back to the window, and John realizes his youngest hasn't noticed him at all.   
  
The open curtains do afford John the opportunity to watch for the perfect moment to show his sons the consequences of their carelessness; he can wait for them to fall asleep instead of just guess.  
  
He slides out of the truck, locks it and walks to the room, careful to remain out of sight.   
  
The first thing he notices are the flickers of candle light. White, plastic tubes with orange bulbs are standing throughout the room: on the bedside table, on the floor. John frowns at the display; this isn't the time for the boys to resurrect their old prank war with crude Valentine's decorations. He isn't even sure how that's a prank. Dean will chastise Sammy for that one all on his own.  
  
Sam is lying on his back on the bed farthest from the window. His palms are behind his head, his eyes are closed, and a content smile is on his lips. John doesn't want to wait to storm insight and scare his boys into being more careful; the sight of Sam lying there as if he doesn't have a care in the world when there's a coven of demons who've been watching him and waiting for the perfect time to strike has his blood boiling.  
  
John remains rooted, peering through room for his eldest son. Dean isn't in sight, but there is yellow light jammed under what must be the bathroom door. It isn't like Dean to take a shower first; he always waits so there's plenty of hot water for his father or brother. It's one of the countless selfless tactics Dean has embraced since he was a toddler, one of his many quiet beauties.   
  
The light is swallowed by black. Sam must be more aware than he seems, because the instant the bathroom doorknob jiggles, Sam's eyes shoot open and he raises himself up on his elbows.   
  
Motel rooms like these don't have the best insulation, don't keep words and screams quiet the way a sturdier hotel would. John can hear a muffled  _Dean_  and an even quieter noise that he can't comprehend, but knows is exhaled from Dean.   
  
Instinct has John tensing, has his lungs stilling, as he waits for Dean to exit the bathroom. He doesn't know what he's waiting for, but something dangerously thrilling, hot almost like anticipation, makes his skin tighten.   
  
He hears Sam call for his brother again. The bathroom door is pushed open slowly, and John finds himself holding his breath as he and Sam both wait for Dean to step into the room.   
  
John isn't sure why he feels as if he's waiting for some sort of big reveal until Dean finally moves into the room, closing the bathroom door softly behind him.  
  
If John wasn't breathing before, his entire body stops functioning at the sight. Dean is naked, nothing John hasn't seen before, but he's also hard, cock jutting towards his stomach, head as pink as his pillow mouth and shining. Dean's hands are folded together and resting on his stomach, just above the dark patch of his pubic hair. John sweeps his gaze up Dean's jumping ab muscles - not as defined as John once was or Sam is now but softer, beckoning to be touched - to the tight draw of his dusky nipples. He follows the slope of Dean's soft throat, stuttering when Dean swallows hard and his Adam's apple bobs, then continues looking upwards, taking in the part of Dean's lush mouth, the pink on his cheeks, the bright glaze of his grass green eyes.   
  
 _Beautiful,_  John thinks at the same time he hears Sam breathe it.   
  
Dean rolls his eyes, but his flush deepens under Sam's praise.   
  
Ice clenches John's guts. He's seen the beauty of his son before - would have to be blind and mired in denial not to. Both of his sons are beautiful, but there's something sweet in Dean's pretty features, something delicate that breaks hearts and ignites as much tenderness as it does lust. Where John and Sam are mountains, Dean is a sea.   
  
Soft words waft from the room to the night. John can faintly hear Dean ask,  _You did all this for me_? At Sam's nod, Dean shakes his head, flush glowing in the fake candle light.  _Such a girl, Sammy_.  
  
Sam laughs as he cups Dean's jaw. John didn't even notice Sam had left the bed and moved into Dean's space. He sees Sam's lips move, whisper something, then sees Sam dip his head to brush a kiss so tender it aches over Dean's soft mouth.   
  
The situation was obvious when Dean walked out of the bathroom with his dick flushed and wet, but it isn't until John actually sees his sons' mouths molding together that he realizes what he's walked in on.   
  
He should leave, stalk back to his truck, drive into the night until black overtakes himt.   
  
But he's never going to be able to burn the image of Sam cradling one hand around the perfect curve of Dean's face, dropping the other to the cut of Dean's hip (made for fingers and tongues to trail down, to taste), walking Dean backward until Dean is flush against the wall and Sam is flush against him. This is something that can't be denied.   
  
So as wrong as it is, as disgusting, as close to evil as John can stand to be, he doesn't move away from the window.   
  
Sam breaks the kiss to slide his open mouth over Dean's jaw, down his neck. John can't kill the dark things that whisper as he watches. Does Dean's skin taste like smoke from the bar and sweat? Is his throat as soft as the pink of his lips? What do the gasps his open mouth is clearly panting sound like: a virgin, a whore?   
  
Dean's arms are curled around Sam, his fingers digging into Sam's shoulder blades. _'ammy,_  John half-hears, half-reads on his lips.  _Got you somethin' for Valentine's Day too_.  
  
With a final long lick from Dean's collar bone to his ear, Sam leans away. There's a smirk on his swollen lips and a twinkle in his eye that John has only ever seen in Dean's gaze.   
  
 _Such a softie_ , Sam teases. Dean scrunches his nose and slaps the middle of Sam's back.  _What'd you get me, baby_?  
  
Internally, John flinches. He expects to see his eldest son flinch at the nickname too; instead, Dean rolls his eyes, but there's a light flushing through him at the term of endearment.   
  
Suddenly Dean's sliding his hands to Sam's chest, pushing him away with a feigned haughty pout. Sam stumbles back with a soft laugh. He holds his hands up, spread in surrender, and watches Dean with a hunger that John can taste (that John can know, does know, has known).   
  
The cocky tilt of Dean's smirk falters a little, then, and something close to apprehension softens his features. John's never known Dean to be unsure of his body, his appeal. But of course John's never seen Dean this stripped down, this raw.  
  
For a moment, John reconsiders slinking back to his truck. Any thought of leaving vanishes as Dean releases a shaky breath and turns around, bracing his hands on the wall and arching his back. John's gaze falls to the soft slope of Dean's ass, the sweet swell of it that makes John's teeth ache. He clenches his jaw, his fists, as he catches a gleam of something shiny and slick along the crease.  
  
Dean spreads his pretty bowed legs, already wide like they're daring someone to slot themselves between them, then brings his hands down to grip his own ass, spreading his cheeks to reveal his puffy rose hole, glistening in the light. Lust as sharp as fangs cuts John to ribbons.   
  
John doesn't need to hear Sam's gasp of want as Dean tilts his spread ass like an offering John can't imagine any god would deserve. He feels the sound, the need, leave his own mouth.  
  
 _Happy Valentine's Day, Sammy_.  
  
Sam stalks forward, slow and reverent. He breathes his brother's name as he runs his fingertips over Dean's shoulders, down his spine, drifts them over Dean's ass. Dean shudders at the feather light touch, sensitive. John wonders if Dean is always so responsive, so sweet, or if that's one of the many things he saves only for his little brother.  
  
 _Shoulda let me watch_ , Sam rasps, brushing his fingers over the expanse of sinfully smooth skin.  _You never let me_.  
  
Dean shivers.  _Valentine's Day ain't over_.  
  
Sam drops a kiss to the nape of Dean's neck, then delivers a swift swat to Dean's ass. Dean yelps, loud enough to be heard clearly from outside the motel, then cranes his neck to shoot an accusing glare at his bother.   
  
John side steps quickly, hoping Dean's gaze didn't graze him. He gulps the cold night air, hoping it will chill the heat in his blood. It doesn't. He drops the back of his head against the building, hoping the dull sting will distract his body, soften the ache that has him half hard in his jeans. It doesn't.   
  
With a deep breath, he turns to his side, peering into the room. Dean is facing the wall again, forehead tipped forward, breathing heavy. His shoulders are straining, fluttering like angel wings. When John allows himself his gaze to drop to the pert swell he's refused to look at for so long, his breath is punched from him.   
  
Dean has two fingers in his ass, buried to the webbing of his hand. His face is twisted harshly, and if John wasn't intimately familiar with the way his son looked in pain, John would think he was hurting himself with every thrust of his fingers.   
  
If Hell is real, John cements his place in the flames with how badly he wants to hear the noises falling from Dean's panting mouth. How much he wants to taste them, feel the breathy slide of them in his throat.   
  
Dean adds another finger. The slide of it looks so damn easy, like Dean's asshole is butter soft, made to slurp in anything fed to it.   
  
Another rush of blood flows painfully to John's cock. He's hard enough that his palm is tingling with the effort to keep from cupping himself, easing the pressure. He won't, of course. He has blood on his hands, scarred patches of flesh and spilled guts he's been the cause of, but he won't do this. Touching himself while he watches his oldest son finger fuck his own ass is a line he refuses to cross.   
  
The line shrinks as Dean manages to work a fourth finger inside. He can't quite work them all the way inside, only gets them knuckle deep, but it spreads his cherry hole wide. Gaping. John can't imagine how it doesn't sting, how it isn't painful to be so open and raw. Dean is clearly only feeling pleasure.   
  
Sam steps into the picture again, dropping his hand to Dean's awkwardly angled wrist. After a few more twists of his fingers, Dean stills.   
  
 _Got another present for 'ya. In my duffle._  
  
There is a tense sense of reluctance in the way Sam draws his fingers from Dean, as if he never wants to leave. He does, stepping away with a deep breath before moving to rummage through Dean's bag. Dean doesn't move. His head stays pressed to the wall, fingers deep in his ass. John can't help but think how good Dean is being, staying put, following unspoken orders.   
  
But Dean is always good, always following orders. Usually the orders are John's, though. He wonders how long Dean has been taking Sam's, if Dean would ever -   
  
He closes his eyes, breathes. Feels the crisp clean of winter air in his nostrils, lungs. Feels it chill his bones but not the hot ache in his belly, his cock.   
  
He's not wondering; he's not thinking about this. He's only observing, an outsider in his own sons' lives. He's not imaging the soft way Dean's mouth would yield to him, the way Dean would whimper at the scratch of stubble on his chin or throat or thighs or ass, the warm, wet suck of Dean's hungry hole around his own fingers, his dick. It would be sick to imagine. It would be evil, like the things John fights.   
  
Watching is close to that darkness, but there is still a light here.  
  
Dean eases his fingers from his body, then turns to face his brother. He shrugs his shoulders with a little grin, that same nervous, wanton flutter of lips that John didn't recognize earlier. How many times has he given this to Sam? How much has he shown Sam that he will never show John, how much does Sam know that he never will?  
  
 _Really, Dean_? Sam is laughing. Dean shrugs again. John considers moving to the other side of the window to get a better view of exactly what present Dean left in the duffle, but a flash of movement now would surely grip Dean's attention.   
  
He should've by now, really. Somewhere along the line Dean has gotten as sloppy as Sam. Maybe John should bring them in on his next hunt, throw in some training and reminder lessons. It's not a real option; he left Dean to avoid distraction, didn't come back when he knew Sam had joined Dean because there's still so much he doesn't know. But maybe he should have come; maybe he shouldn't have left Dean alone. Dean's always had trouble on his own, found it more easily and jumped into it more messily. Maybe Dean wouldn't be seeking his brother this way if he had his father by his side.  
  
 _These for you or me_?  
  
Dean licks his lips, shrugs again. The movements make him seem so much smaller, so much needier than he is. _It's your present, man_.  
  
Sam says something too low for John to hear. Grinning, Dean moves towards one of the beds, still hard cock bobbing as he walks.  
  
While his back is turned, John steps quickly to the left. He can see Sam standing by the bed farthest from the door, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his fingers. Another wave of want wrecks John, a ship dragged by his belly into the ocean and torn to scraps.   
  
 _How do you want me_? Dean asks as he kneels on the bed. Beautiful, like a painting, a sculpture too sensational to be real.   
  
 _Your back_.   
  
Dean crawls up the bed, hands and knees, ass swaying with movement. It's a siren song and John finds himself pressing his hips into the wall. Dean falls on his back -  _so good at taking orders_  - and curls his fingers around the metal spokes of the headboard.  
  
Sam leans over him, cuffing one hand, sliding the chain through a spoke, cuffing the other. Once Dean is cuffed, Sam rocks back on his heels, sweeping his gaze along Dean's body. Sam towers over Dean like this, looks almost monstrously huge in the shadows. John has the urge to pull him away, to cover Dean's body from Sam's dark hooded eyes, from Sam's hands that seem too large as he splays them on Dean's chest.   
  
Sam caresses Dean's chest. He rakes his nails over Dean's pecs, tweaks the nipples Dean used to joke about being so perky. Dean arches into the touch.  
  
One hand playing with Dean's nipple, Sam uses the other to wrestle his jeans off. The denim pools at his feet and he steps out of the pants to swing one leg over Dean's hip. He lowers himself onto Dean's thighs, and John hears trembling noises leave both of them.  
  
The bulk of Sam's body obscures John's view of Dean, spread out like a feast for the starving things inside Sam and John both. John can see half of Dean's face, illuminated by the fake candles, and he can see Dean's chest, the outline of his ribs when he breathes in deeply, the graceful curves of his calves.   
  
Sam leans down to capture his brother's mouth. John can't see the kiss, but he can practically hear it: Dean's groans and Sam's moans, the slick slide of tongues and the clacking of teeth. John can feel the hunger in it.   
  
They kiss for minutes, hours. Finally Sam pulls away. He slides down Dean's body, kissing and licking and nipping every inch of Dean's skin, and he isn't gentle about it. John can't see but can imagine the red Sam's teeth pour into Dean as he scrapes them along Dean's trembling belly, trembling thighs.   
  
Dean bucks and writhes, pushes into Sam's mouth and away from it, winces like Sam is hurting him and moans like Sam is making him see Heaven. John is panting himself, helplessly turned on by the sight of his gorgeous wanton boy, by the time Sam gets his shoulders under Dean's legs.   
  
Sam crawls forward, Dean's legs splayed wide and hanging around his neck. John looks between them to catch a glimpse of Dean's stretched, glistening hole before Sam's body blocks it.   
  
John can't see between them enough to watch Sam split his beautiful big brother apart on his cock, but he does see the way Dean's face tightens then goes slack, the way Dean's mouth falls open and eyes fly wide as if he's been cut or grazed.   
  
 _Sammy_ , Dean groans, drawing the nickname out in a pornographic moan that everyone in the block of rooms must be able to hear. It's helpless, full of shame and need. Dean tries to bite his lip, keep his pretty noises bottled in his see through throat.   
  
Sam is saying words John can't hear. Telling Dean to be quiet, to hush, baby, gonna wake up the whole damn town. Telling Dean not to hide how badly he wants Sam's cock, how good it feels to have Sam's dick pulsing deep inside of him.   
  
John would tell Dean to be good, maybe slap a hand over his mouth or stuff something inside, test Dean's self-control by ordering him not to make a single sound then fucking him so hard even his bones can't quiet. But God damn, he'd also tell Dean to be naughty. He'd see just how loudly he could make Dean scream.   
  
Whatever Sam says becomes moot as he begins to thrust in a steady rhythym. Dean slides his legs from Sam's shoulders to wrap them around Sam's waist. His calves slide against each other, against Sam's back, and John doesn't need to see anything but the way Dean can't remain still to see how much Dean is loving being filled to the brim with cock. Going absolutely crazy for dick, for the fire and ice of having his ass torn apart and owned.   
  
Is it just his baby brother's cock that Dean is gagging for, or is it any dick, as long as it's thick and long and mouth watering enough? Would Dean be as eager for a dicking from a stranger, a freind? His father?  
  
John jerks himself the window, slapping his back onto the building and clencing his fists to his sides. Moans and the creaking mattress begin to spill from the motel room into the night, dampen the sounds of life and the sight of stars. John can pinpoint the groans that are Dean's, so much sluttier and warmer and tempting than Sam's animal grunts.   
  
He digs his nails into the motel's exterior. He'll split them off in the wood if that's what it takes to keep from palming his aching cock to the sound of his perfect, pretty soldier getting fucked and loving every second of it. Thinks he can feel the blood trickling warm down his fingers already, but it's just his lust, drizzling through his pores.   
  
 _Harder, Sammy, c-can take it_.  
  
 _I know you can. So fuckin' hot for it, Dean. So fuckin' **hot**_.  
  
Eyes closing, John tells himself he isn't going to wonder if Sam is referring to the scorching heat that must be the inside of Dean's body, that must be the cling of his ass to Sam's cock, or if it's just a general description of how gorgeous Dean looks taking a dick. But he does. Imagines Dean's insides burning him to ash. Imagines the sweat that must coat Dean's skin, the beautiful way his eyes and mouth and body must tremble, the face he makes when ( _if_ ) Sam hits his sweet spot, the face he makes when he comes.   
  
John wants to see it, hear it. He feels dizzier with disgust than desire, but he can't make himself move. He can only stand, packed tight and dense as sand, oceans of moans and groans crashing against him, lapping at him until he's sweating in the cool air.  
  
He hears Dean come first. Knows it's his eldest by the shuddering cry of it, the way the pleasure-pain sob is pulled from the very heart. Then Sam shouts his brother's name, and the bed stops creaking.   
  
The silence of their aftermath breaks whatever curse holding John to the ground. He moves quickly to his truck, ignoring the pain of blood rushing too hot in his cock, the discomfort of the wet spot in his boxers and the feeling of his dick pressed to his zipper. When he hops in the cab, he drops his head against the steering wheel and shudders a breath.   
  
He allows himself only a few moments to regain his composure. Then, with gritted teeth, he starts the truck and peels from the motel. He'll teach his sons a lesson another time.   
  
-  
  
John doesn't go back to his own motel on the other side of town. Instead, he heads back to the dive bar his boys had stopped at.  
  
Even hidden by night and the blurry visions of strangers, it would be too much of a risk to jerk off in the truck. That risk keeps John's hands curled around the steering wheel instead of wrapped around his cock, stripping his dick to memories of Dean's glistening asshole, his beautiful face, the noises fucked out of him.   
  
Among the buzzing lamp lights and the sounds of rundown life and the stars, he thinks of Mary. He hopes for calm in memories of her smile, for guilt in memories of the way she held Dean fiercely and loved him with all of her heart. There is only a hollow ache, deep in his guts, the one he feels when he thinks of Mary in the few still moments he finds.   
  
He loved her, still loves her, but sometimes, in seconds such as these, he can't quite remember why. He can't quite pinpoint why he can't exorcise her ghost, why his heart doesn't swell the same at her memory as it does when Dean slaps his own thigh and throws his head back in joy.   
  
There is something broken in him. He knew it the moment he saw flames swallow the love of his life whole. So many years spent driven by vengeance, by atonement for not protecting her, for forgetting the way she smells and how he fell in love with her. The shatters in his bones have deepened, have twisted and tainted under the evil he hunts. It's clouded his vision. He looks at his youngest son and sees an echo of the things he's killed; he looks at his eldest and sees what he kills for.   
  
He shakes his head. Mary. Mary is why he kills, why he breaks, why he burned the innocence of her precious sons and replaced it with ferocity and iron wills. Mary is who he does this for, not Dean, not himself, not the world. Mary.  
  
It takes minutes that feel like days and a meditation he learned from a hunter in the Rocky Mountain's for the ache in his cock to subside. When he can move, when he can breathe, he heads into the bar for a drink.  
  
-  
  
The moment Sam walks into the bar, John straightens in his stool. He taps the counter in front of him, signalling the bartender, and orders two beers. Bringing one bottle to his lips, he slides the other one in front of the empty seat to his left.   
  
"Happy Valentine's day, son," he says as Sam slips beside him. Mentally, he shakes himself. Sam didn't follow him, but must have known where he was going, meaning Sam must have known he'd followed his sons here earlier tonight. Sam must have known he was in the pharmacy. John almost laughs, bitter and loathing. Sam saw him follow them to the motel, knew exactly what he was doing when he pulled those curtains apart.  
  
His heart seizes for one terrifying moment, but it's gone in a flash. Dean would've never let Sam touch him if he'd known their father was watching. John is caught between enraged fear -  _Dean let his guard down, forgot everything John taught him, could've gotten himself hurt_  - and relief -  _Dean doesn't know the sick way his father watched and wanted, will still look John in the eye and see a hero_.  
  
"Four years," Sam grits, not taking the stool or the beer. "And that's all you have to say?"  
  
It's not. John has so many things to say he doesn't have enough words in his brain to say them.  _I never wanted you to leave, I was afraid for you, I should have been, the demons are watching you, I'm scared for you and I'm scared of you, I'm sorry for Jess, how could you touch your brother, he can't say no to you, I can't look at you_.  
  
John takes a sip of his beer.  
  
Sam laughs, all anger and disillusionment. "You're unbelievable. You don't come when I call to tell you Dean is _dying_ , but you can find time to stalk us on Valentine's Day."  
  
Pain flashes so hard behind John's eyes he has to close them. The most terrifying phone call of his life and he couldn't answer, not sure if Sam was telling the truth, not sure if Sam was still Sammy or something else entirely. He'd spent that limbo time re-reading all he knew about the crossroads demon, had his fingers in the dirt when Sam had left him the message.  _If you care, Dean's alive. I saved him_.  
  
John's relief had mixed with a shiver until he found out Dean's savior was a faith healer. Hand shaking, he takes another drink. There are too many questions, too many things he wants to say, too much he has to keep locked away until he knows, until he's  _sure_.  
  
Sam sighs. It's the cruelest sound John's ever heard from his son. "No need to get so worked up about everything. And please, stop apologizing for abandoning your children. It's embarrassing."  
  
"You boys looked like you were doin' okay without your old man around."  
  
"Oh, we are. More than okay." Sam takes the beer on the counter, slams back a drink before he slams the bottle on the bar. "I'm taking care of him."  
  
Everything that is ugly inside John twists. He laughs dry and empty and dead around the bottle of his beer. "That's one way of putting it." He glances at his son, sees Sammy's lips curled around his teeth. He looks away.  
  
"I have his back on hunts. He was dying, and I saved him. His father broke him and I'm putting the pieces back together. How else would you put that?"  
  
John clenches his jaw, tries to reign in his rage, disgust, his evil jealousy. "You're taking advantage of him. Hurting him."  
  
The bark of Sam's laughter scrapes John's ears. "Hurting him? I'm healing him. From all the shit you put on his shoulders."  
  
"You ever remember Dean saying no to you, Sammy? Unless that no was coming from me? You remember him denying you anything?"  
  
"That's not what this is," Sam hisses, but John can smell it, the scratch in Sam's skin and the trickle of blood. He's found the fear that whispers in Sam's head at night. "He's in love with me."  
  
That has John's skin tightening, muscles compressing into his bones. Sam has found one of John's own fears. "If you can let yourself believe that - "  
  
Sam slaps his hand against the bar. "You don't know. You haven't been here, you never have. You never understood me or him or us, even when we were kids. So don't even pretend to know how he feels. Don't even pretend you care."  
  
Before John can tell Sam to watch his mouth, watch the way he speaks to his own father, Sam pulls his lips in a dark smile and leans closer, keeps his damning words low and away from the other bar patrons.  
  
"You know what I think would really hurt him? If he knew his father had seen him getting fucked by his little brother and stuck around to watch the show."  
  
Nausea hits John, sickness tinged in jealousy and anger and Heaven help him, tinged in hate.   
  
"He thinks you're a hero, but we both know heroes don't want to fuck their own sons."  
  
"I think you're projecting there, Sammy," John says, emotions wild under the surface and dead in his voice. "I'd never do that to him."  
  
Sam pulls back. His eyes are narrowed -  _and under the dim light look almost black, beetle black, Hell black, but it's just a trick of the lights_  - and his jaw is clenched. He regards John for a long, tense beat. John feels itchy, restless, and his knuckles ache for bone. All the times he and Sam have fought, it's never come to fists. Dean was always there to temper their tempers, to remind them of family and goodness and beauty. But Dean isn't here, is probably back at the motel, sleeping in the afterglow.  
  
Images of Sam's blood on his hands are spinning when Sam finally says, "No. You're never gonna get that chance. He's mine, always has been, and you'll never have him back. Not the way you had him before."  
  
"You left him too," John grits. There is bile in his throat and there are tears biting his eyes, but he refuses to feel anything other than the buzz of alcohol in his brain. "You'll leave him again. Hurt him again."  
  
"I won't."  
  
"Because he's putting out now, huh? You have what you want from him now, so you - "  
  
"I learned from my mistakes," Sam hisses through clenched teeth. "I had four years to figure out how important Dean is, how much it hurts to live without him. I'm not gonna fuck up the same way you did, because unlike you, I can take care of the people I love."  
  
Sam might as well have hit him. Slashed and burned and killed him. His hand curls around the bottle, shaking with the urge to wrap around Sam's tongue, stop it from speaking or touching Dean again.   
  
He doesn't move, says nothing, and Sam turns to leave. Their backs are turned to each other when Sam pauses.  
  
"If you have a case, you can call me," Sam says. "You don't get to talk to Dean. You don't get to hear his voice."  
  
John drains his beer as Sam walks away. He slams the empty bottle on the bar, taps it again. The bartender makes her way to him.  
  
"Another beer?" she asks, smiling deep and cheeky. It reminds him of Dean.  
  
"Whiskey," he says. She nods appreciatively at the order. It reminds him of Dean. He throws another twenty on the bar. "Make it a double."  
  
In a few moments, she slides the drink to him. "Happy Valentine's Day."   
  
"Yeah," he laughs bitterly. "Happy Valentine's Day."


End file.
